


Call Me

by clarkeneedsbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:31:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkeneedsbellamy/pseuds/clarkeneedsbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Come to my room when O falls asleep.]  </p><p>She tells herself that it’s merely the gleam of her phone that banishes whatever sleepiness might have weighed upon her eyelids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me

It’s barely three A.M. when Octavia’s words begin to slur into snores and her bronzed face finally slumps against her pillow. Mumbling a groan into the elbow-flattened surface, she kicks her feet out, sending a discarded can of coke spinning towards the muted television.

Rolling over in her sleeping bag, Clarke eyes the phone shining bright at her side among the darkness of the Blake family’s basement.

_New Message: Bellamy Blake._

It’s the second time the message has popped up – the second time that her eyes have lingered on the name flashing across her screen and the second time she’s allowed it to fade.

Her phone still seems to buzz at her ears even once it’s gone dark and silent.

Clarke clenches her eyes shut, willing her mind to go as blank as Octavia’s. She has an AP Bio test to study for in – eight hours now, assuming she allows herself the morning off. Her parents expect her to attend some charity function the next night, her AP Government paper still needs drastic revision before Monday, and she swore to herself she’d be asleep by now. By two hours before now actually, if she’s being technical.

Her eyes flutter open, darting back towards her phone.

Swallowing a groan, Clarke jerks onto her back. Granted, it would be a whole lot easier to fall asleep if she didn’t know that Bellamy was only a staircase away. Probably in bed. Her teeth grind against her lower lip. Possibly shirtless.

Screw it.

She yanks her phone beneath the cover of her sleeping bag, her recently dried nail polish glinting against its case.

Her fingers sprint across the screen to open the message.

[ _ **Come to my room when O falls asleep.**_ ]

She tells herself that it’s merely the gleam of her phone that banishes whatever sleepiness might have weighed upon her eyelids.

[ _I can’t. Sleeping._ ]

Which she will be. Shortly.

But when her phone glows once more, seizing against her palm, she unlocks it without a pause.

[ _ **Clearly.**_ ]

Her fingers haven’t even reached her keyboard when another message appears.

[ _ **C’mon, Princess.**_ ]

[ _And what do you want me to tell Octavia if she wakes up? “Sorry, I just couldn’t keep my hands off your brother for one night?”_ ]

She can practically see his eyes rolling, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smirk.

[ _ **It’ll be a miracle if she wakes up before noon, and you know it.**_ ]

The unnecessary beat she waits before responding has nothing to do with considering exactly how many steps it would take her to reach Bellamy’s room, nothing to do with imagining him sprawled against his mattress with some history book spread open on his chest. Her fingers clench and unwind. Nothing at all.

[ _Sorry, Bellamy. Not happening._ ]

He’s right, of course. She and Octavia have been sleeping over at one another’s houses since junior high, and never once gotten up before ten. If she wanted to, she could completely manage to…

No. She’s not going to consider just how possible it would be to slip into Bellamy’s room, then back down into the basement before morning.  She’s not going to think about how easy it would be.

Clarke steadies her breath and locks her legs into place against the floor. Easy, maybe.  Wise, not so much.  This is not going to be how Octavia finds out that she’s been sneaking around with her brother for the past month.

[ _ **And what was that about you ‘putting you hands on me’?**_ ]

Stupid, apparently. Responding to Bellamy at all – she’d doomed herself from the start.

[ _ **Typical politician’s daughter… All empty promises.**_ ]

Clarke cants her head.

[ _Oh, really._ ]

[ _ **Prove me wrong, Princess.**_ ]

Her tongue drags itself against the backs of her teeth. Clarke swallows all thought, ignores the blush warming her cheeks, and starts typing.

[ _And where exactly would you want my hands?_ ]

She sends it before she can remember to stop herself – before she can reason out that there’s no way this is ending with her falling asleep anytime remotely soon.

[ _ **Wherever you the hell you want them.**_ ]

[ _ **Personally, I’d grab you by the hips first. Hard. I’d have you underneath me before you had time to blink.**_ ]

Clarke’s teeth scrape down against her lower lip.

[ _So maybe I’d clench my fingers in your hair. Hard. Maybe I’d pull your mouth down on mine before you had time to smirk._ ]

[ _ **Oh, I think I’d manage.**_ ]

She rolls her eyes.  Ass.

[ _ **I’d have my hands beneath your shirt the minute you did.**_ ]

[ _ **That fucking shirt. Does that even qualify as a shirt.**_ ]

Clarke’s eyes skirt down to study her camisole, the paper-thin green cotton dimly illuminated by her phone’s glow. The corners of her lips rise. Even combined with a set of sleep shorts, it’s less fabric than she usually wears to bed – a far cry from her standard t-shirt and sweats.

[ _I have no idea what you’re talking about._ ]

[ _ **Yeah, you’re not convincing me that you didn’t know exactly what you were doing wearing that.**_ ]

After a beat, she spares a nod at her phone in a surrender he’s not present to appreciate. She’s not a good enough liar to convince him – or herself, for that matter – that she hadn’t weighed the possibility of seeing him when she folded it neatly into her overnight bag earlier that afternoon. That, when he sauntered down to the basement several hours ago to grab a soda from the fridge, she hadn’t had to temper a grin at the feeling of his eyes lingering on her, only snapping away when Octavia had hurled a can of Red Bull at his head.

[ _ **You wore it so I would tear it off you. Which I will, by the way. I’ll have it over your head and my hands back on your chest before either of us can register they’d been gone.**_ ]

Clarke curls one hand tight around her phone and the other against the opening of her sleeping bag.

Barely a foot away, Octavia sputters a snore.

[ _ **And those shorts. I want my hands beneath their waistband and my mouth on your stomach.**_ ]

[ _ **Don’t try to tell me that you’re not thinking about my fingers on you right now.**_ ]

Her right hand clenches hard enough to choke her phone and her left tight enough to pierce her nails through her sleeping bag’s polyester.

[ _ **Don’t try to tell me that you wouldn’t fucking love it if I wrapped my hands around your thighs**_ ]

[ _ **And pressed my mouth down on your hip bones**_ ]

[ _ **Past the waist-band**_ ]

[ _ **Kneading my fingers higher**_ ]

[ _ **And higher.**_ ]

She squirms against the ground.

[ _ **If I slipped one finger past your underwear**_ ]

[ _ **Then another.**_ ]

[ _ **By the time I finally took them off, you’d be begging and you know it.**_ ]

Her feet go as tense as her fists, curling close together.

[ _And if I brought my mouth down to your stomach? If I pressed my lips down along your chest and dug my nails into your back and dragged my lips down to your hips_ ]

[ _Then lower._ ]

[ _ **I might consider moving mouth down to your thigh next**_ ]

[ _ **and repeating the whole damn thing.**_ ]

She could stay here. She’ll wind up lying here awake all night, but Clarke could keep herself rigid if need be.

If she thought it was worth it.

The discarded remote conspires with the infomercial still running on the television to provide a scapegoat for slipping out of her sleeping bag. Clarke doesn’t use it. She doesn’t bother pretending that she’s only standing to grab the remote and turn off the TV. The room goes completely dark, and, even if Octavia were to open her eyes right then, she wouldn’t see Clarke toying with her messy blonde bun as she pads towards the stairs.

It’s only slightly brighter on the first floor, the moonlight leaking through the windows a weak help against the dark. In the dozen or so steps she takes down the hallway, Clarke only just manages to avoid knocking over a table and spilling its glass lamp to the carpet.

When she reaches Bellamy’s room, she grabs at the doorknob and pulls herself inside without preamble.

As always, his room seems almost strangely neat for a teenage boy. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was hiding something – drugs or knives or cigarettes. Something nefarious.

(She does know better, of course.)

Before Bellamy, Clarke’s knowledge of teenage boys’ rooms had extended to likes of Jasper’s and Monty’s. She’d come to expect week-old-clothes left lying on the floor, balled-up wrappers and empty bottles congregating on desks.

Save for the t-shirt (today’s, presumably) that he left hanging across the back of his desk chair, Bellamy’s clothes stay among the shelves of his closet. His floor remains relatively clear, and his desk rarely plays host to more than one abandoned water bottle.

Bed still made beneath him, Bellamy allows a thick book to fall against his comforter before raking his eyes across her. “Nice PJs”

She’d have flushed at that once. Even a couple months ago, her hands would have warred between scrambling towards the v-neck of her camisole and pulling at the hem of her sleep shorts in a bid for length. Now, she only tilts her chin.

Propped up against his headboard, he crosses his arms behind his head and raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t tell me you’re just planning to stand there.”

Clarke’s hands settle on her hips. “Maybe I only came to tell you to stop texting me.”

"Yeah." Kicking himself up from his recline, he leans towards the foot of his bed; towards her. "And maybe you’re a terrible liar."

"Oh, shut up."

(A moment later, her thighs lock around his hips, her mouth crashes against his, and he obliges.)


End file.
